


state of me

by chemicalburnfromthespiralperm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mental Breakdown, Season 8, Wincest - Freeform, trials!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalburnfromthespiralperm/pseuds/chemicalburnfromthespiralperm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean looks up and into his brother’s eyes, and for the first time Dean can’t find Sam anywhere.  Sam gives himself a haircut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	state of me

The first lock of Sam’s hair falls on the floor in a gentle waft of whatever breeze happens to be blowing through the bathroom at the time. It settles on the floor and Sam looks at it, not quite sure where it’s come from or what it’s doing there or how it got there. His fist closes around another lock, thicker this time, and the blade sings as it slices through his hair.

Sam’s breaths are choppy like broken glass and boiling whiskey and two-packs-a-day. His lungs are fire. He doesn’t know who he is right now, couldn’t tell you who the president was if you slapped him in the face and asked him.

The machete in his hand is small, smaller than the ones they normally used but it had been hanging on the wall in the main room for weeks, ever since they got there. Sam’s been eyeing it, wondering what the hilt would feel like nestled gently in his palm, grip strong yet gentle, as if he and the blade are one.

_This is my friend. Look how he shines. At last my arm is complete._

He is shaking, his whole body is nearly convulsing, but his grip on the blade is tight, strong, confidant. His whole body is killing him from the inside out because of these fucking trials and Sam is on fire, feels like he’s literally burning from his intestines outward, and he’s sweaty and gross and sick but this isn’t something you feed or make better. It’s something that you beat, or it kills you.

Another lock falls, floats to the ground, followed by pieces and then chunks, heavy bits and and odds and ends of Sam’s hair.

Sam’s never been objectified, has never had his masculinity put on the table under a microscope before, but every lover he’s ever had, ever random stranger they’ve ever interrogated, every person that’s ever so much as looked at him has commented on his hair. Dean runs his fingers through it when Sam tries to sleep. Dean threads his fingers through the hairs at the base of his neck and pulls when they’re making love. Dean braids it. Dean makes fun of him for it. It’s a thing, an actual thing that makes Sam who he is.

So he cuts it off.

No more luscious locks of moose mane, no more Barbie jokes, no more Ken doll references, no more being made of entirely one thing.

The last piece falls in a pile with the rest and Sam is shaking violently, his body fighting back at him, getting angry with him for crying, and then he notices that there’s blood on his hands, that he cut himself but he doesn’t know where. Doesn’t care. He can’t breathe, he thought cutting it would help him breathe but it’s just made things worse, and the sobs are choked out, pushed out in heaves and loud bursts of hysteria. The air has gone cold and there isn’t enough of it in the world to fill Sam’s lungs, to make the hurting stop.

There are days when Sam doesn’t want to get out of bed, and then there are the days when the world steps up right in front of him and shatters him into a million pieces.

Today is the day that Sam Winchester broke.

.......................................

Dean is reading. Doesn’t matter what, he’s not paying attention to the words. Sam went to sleep 12 hours ago. He’s been worried ever since.

The air goes stiff and stale, inexplicably colder and thicker than it was 15 minutes before. He hears a strangled sound, a cry, desperate, and he’s out the chair and into Sam’s bathroom faster than he’s ever ran from or to anything in his life.

There aren’t really words to describe the way Dean’s heart absolutely breaks when he sees his little brother huddled over bloody hair and a knife. He’s grabbing absently at the pieces, picking them up and holding them to his chest as if they’re a life force. Dean can’t move, so he watches Sam fall apart for a few moments before his feet start thinking for him and move him to his brother’s side.

Sam is cold, his skin freezing to the touch when Dean brushes the hair out of Sam’s hands. He pulls Sam into his chest and rests his cheek on top of Sam’s head, rocking him back and forth and shushing him gently. It’ll grow back, it’s just hair, but Sam hasn’t had a haircut in ten years.

“It’s okay, Sam. You need to calm down or you’ll cry yourself sick,” is the only damn thing he can think of to say, and his voice rattles Sam, shatters him into 18 billion different pieces as he cries into his brother’s neck. Dean is safety, a security blanket and Dean is all too willing to spread himself across Sam and keep him safe, but he can’t.

He leans back and picks up Sam’s hands, inspecting them for cuts when he sees the culprit across Sam’s left palm. It’s not too bad, won’t need stitches but it was enough to bleed something fierce.

“I don’t want it to grow back,” Sam says. Dean hears, I don’t want to get better.

Dean looks up and into his brother’s eyes, and for the first time Dean can’t find Sam anywhere.

 


End file.
